Tag Archives: french woman

Diane

French accent as thick and sweet as an eclaire.

Rag tag and bright are warm clothes you wear.

I see oceans and Rivera skies in your blue hair.

High fashion, cool, something French New Wave.

You and me, dining and dancing, no world to save.

I would be your man, and I would always be brave.

Sharing a cigarette under a black umbrella, content.

Walking hand in hand, not caring were the night went.

I dream these things, of love of you; Dreams don’t repent.

France Gall, chirpy and naïve, plays on my headphones.

In passing we are friends, and I put that flesh on bones.

Dreams are the river washing smooth discontented stones.

Sea and Sky, One

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Dim blue morning.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold morning. Warm dreams.

Soft gold. I take pictures. She is regal.

Grace. Latest fashions. Some without.

Flesh is gold. Gold I buy magic.

I buy a spell on glossy paper.

She is an eclipsed sun. Silver morning.

Golden night. Bright around the shadows.

Her eyes are distant. Distant as an angel.

She was born of an angel who loved a man.

Night is falling. Stars come out.

Blue sky’s tide is rolling out.

The moon kisses her. Only pure kiss.

I pack up film and camera. She watches the sea.

French model. French cigarettes.

The sea before her. Sea and sky, one.

The smoke. Her dark hair. Whipped about.

Cold sea wind. Cold night. What are these dreams?


French Woman

French woman singing on the radio, calling to me from the dark

of this Berlin apartment, as the night passes by without sleep.

A song I’m sure is full of love and tenderness, though I can’t understand.

Another war is brewing. Another pointless sacrifice, that will change nothing.

And still that French woman sings of something pure and sweet.

I think of walking hand in hand with a pretty women, when it’s all really done.

But it will never be done. It’s just the same tired shit on and on forever.

I know I go in the morning, to face the awful thing they’ve done.

French woman sings, I know, of something good and pure and sweet.

I listen, try to hold onto her voice like the last beam of light from the sun.

There will be so little of it left, after all the fire that is to come.

With Their Thunder

Dreaming of Paris in spring, as I look out the window at dreary winter.
Dreaming of riding on narrow streets on a scooter, a pretty girl holding on to me,
her dark hair blowing behind her like the banner of Joan of Arc,
and with all the holiness of a love divine.
The mountains block the sky, the clouds ever low and colorless.
I dream of her, Francoise Hardy on my headphones, as the bus rolls on,
of her face veiled in cigarette smoke, and her smile cruel and full of promises,
walking hand in hand in ancient streets.
Dark hair, perfumed and silky, just us in the regal and pristine moonlight.
Someplace better than the rut in the earth that is this fucking town.
Filling my face with those dark locks, feeling the soft warmth of her skin,
as we kiss, kiss deep and hard and passionately, as the sun rises up.